


Rapere

by scifinut



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifinut/pseuds/scifinut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rapere - to drag off violently, to seize</p>
<p>John finds himself in a very dangerous situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Constupare

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing is beta-ed, sorry for any mistakes. The idea was given to me by a friend this morning and this was the beginning of what came out of it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constupare - To debauch, ravish, corrupt
> 
> John wakes up. Soon enough he'll wish he hadn't.

John opened his eyes slowly, trying to figure out what had happened. He had been on his way home from Tesco's, and then...this. His head was pounding and he seemed to be on his side on a concrete floor. "Jesus," he muttered to himself, taking stock of his situation. The room was too dark to see anything more than vague shadows, but from the echo of his voice it seemed quite large. Someone had hit him upside the head fairly hard and brought him here, and it seemed that whoever it was didn't want him to leave any time soon. His hands were bound behind his back with handcuffs, and his ankles were manacled together. When he tried to pull his feet up towards his chest, he ended up sliding across the ground, as the manacles between his ankles were attached to a large bolt anchored into the floor.

His heart sank. Someone wanted to make sure that he didn't get anywhere. He had thought that this bit of his life was over, that the past twenty months of relative peace had been an indication that Sherlock really was gone and that nobody wanted him for anything. Apparently he had been wrong.

"Hello," John called out. "Look, I don't know who you are, but I really think there's been a misunderstanding." There was a throaty chuckle from the darkness behind him. "Really, I'm sure it's a mistake. If you could just let me out of this, I'll be right along my way, right? Nothing more said about it." Where the chuckle had sounded there was now a swish of fabric. John tried to spin around to see what was going on, but all he could see was movement in the shadows.

"I don't think there has been a misunderstanding, Doctor Watson," came a voice from another area of shadow. "We brought you here. We've been watching you."

John focused on the voice. It was hard to tell if it was a deep woman's voice or a high man's voice. There was nothing from the inflection that gave anything away. If Sherlock had been here, he would have engaged in witty banter and figured out enough to get everyone in the room either pissed off or afraid of him. But Sherlock wasn't here. Hadn't been for nearly two years, since he had taken that bloody header off of St. Bart's. "Get much of a show, then?" he countered. "I mean, between work and shopping and the occasional night out, you must have been absolutely fascinated. Riveting work, I'm sure."

A figure stepped towards him from directly in front and landed a kick squarely in his stomach, curling John over in pain. "Quite," the figure said, a second nondescript voice. He stepped back and faded into the shadows again before John could make out any details.

He heard steps from behind him, but the pain in his stomach kept him from bracing for the blows that fell on his arm and hip. It felt like whoever was hitting him was using some sort of paddle or bat; but as the blows kept coming, any distinction between the two was made moot. He cried out in pain, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to roll away from the beating, do anything to protect himself from being abused further.

"Oh no you don't," came a third voice as hands grabbed his shoulders, holding him tightly. "We're just getting started." Another set of hands grabbed his ankles and the two assailants rolled him out flat onto his stomach. The bat kept hitting him, and at one point he was sure an arm had broken, but the pain was starting to dull his mind, let it drift away.

Suddenly the blows stopped. John was brought back to reality sharply, moaning at the pain spreading across his back. He had no idea what he had done to attract this sort of attention, he had kept his head down after Sherlock's death, had left everything about that part of his life alone, but now he was trying desperately to focus on the past, to think about anyone who had reason to cause him this much harm.

"Are you ready, Johnny-boy?" whispered a voice right into his ear. John opened his eyes and nearly blacked out at the sight. "No, you've got to stay awake for the fun," said the man with Sherlock's face as he pulled John's shoulder back painfully.

"No...Sherlock." John's pain-filled mind tried to make sense of the situation. Sherlock was dead, obviously he wasn't torturing him here. But there he was, in the darkness, very nearly pulling his shoulder out of its socket. "Please, stop."

"Hear that? He wants me to stop!" jeered the man with Sherlock's face. There was laughter from all around him. "I'm not stopping anytime soon, Johnny-boy, and there's nothing you can do to make me," the fake Sherlock sneered quietly at John. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing you try."

 _Think, John. Focus._ He took a shuddering breath. He could get through this, whatever it was. _That isn't Sherlock. That's not his voice. He wouldn't_ do _something like this._ But no matter what his brain tried to tell him, when he looked up, all he could see was his former flatmate smiling wickedly.

"Come on, John! Try harder!" came the call from his feet. He looked down at the man holding them in place and saw Sherlock again, pinning his knees to the ground. "I'm sure you can figure something out."

Another Sherlock. Was his mind playing tricks on him? What was going on? At least the bat was gone, that was a start. As he struggled to put his thoughts in order, someone else came and knelt beside him. Sherlock. With a knife. "If you're not going to play along, then we'll speed up the game," this one said with a slight Scottish lilt.

John tensed, expecting the knife to be buried into him somewhere. Instead he felt a sudden rush of coolness on his waist as his trousers and pants were sliced away efficiently. There were tatters left hanging as the three Sherlocks pulled him to his knees. The one at his shoulders held him tightly, making sure he didn't move anywhere as the one at his ankles roughly spread his arse.

"Quite lovely," he said, spitting onto the hole. "Too bad it won't stay that way for long."

His head was held still as something was shoved roughly into his arsehole. He screamed and tried to writhe around, but that only made whatever was fucking him become rougher. "Ahh, he's feistier than I had imagined," sighed the knife-wielding one. "I thought surely he'd keep himself in better shape than this."

John let all the words wash over him. They weren't important. The searing pain in his rear was holding his focus, as was the throbbing in his arms and shoulders every time he moved to escape it. For a brief few seconds there was a respite and he managed to take a deep breath before a much larger intrusion. It felt as though he was being torn apart from the inside and his screams began afresh. It was too much to handle, Sherlock holding him up while Sherlock raped him. There was nothing about this that was right. As the Sherlock behind him continued with his vicious pace, John felt his mind detach from his body. He wasn't there anymore, wasn't in the pain, he was somewhere else. Somewhere hidden and secret. Somewhere safe, where Sherlock couldn't get to him and hurt him anymore. He didn't even feel the men drop him back onto the cold concrete or hear them laughing as they left.


	2. Inimicare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inimicare - To make hostile, to make enemies
> 
> John's captors have made themselves a worse enemy than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this hasn't seen a beta yet. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Sherlock's focus came back to the man in front of him. He was a large fellow, probably used to intimidating people by sheer size. Sherlock, however, wasn't intimidated by looks. He had known as soon as his current torturer came in that he would be the gentlest on him, that the man had an ailing grandmother at home and only worked for this group as an enforcer to get enough money to pay for her needs. He didn't enjoy hurting people, but he managed to fool all of his associates into thinking he did. Sherlock managed to keep quiet about this fact. It was easier to work with someone who wasn't actually going to cause him harm.

"Look, you're obviously not very talented at this," he began, his sudden speech startling the large man. "I understand your reasons, but really? Beating me about the arms and shoulders?" His words were slightly slurred due to their swelling from previous sessions, but he spoke with as much boredom and contempt as his brain could muster. "You're not going to do too much lasting damage there. If you're going to do that, at least focus on one specific area at a time. Try one finger at once, and keep at that until it's utterly crushed and useless."

The large man bent down to stare straight into Sherlock's face. Without a word, he slapped him hard enough across the cheek to cause the chair Sherlock was tied into to stagger along the floor. After a few seconds he did it again. And a third time. "Like this?"

Sherlock spit a bit of blood out of his mouth and attempted to smile. "Much better. Though I still doubt you'll get much out of me."

"I doubt that will be a problem for much longer, Mister Holmes," came a voice that was becoming disgustingly familiar to Sherlock. It was the man who apparently ran the whole facility that he had called home for at least a month. He sat it on a few sessions here or there and always asked pointed questions about the government, Sherlock's reason for snooping around in the first place, and various other boring pieces of information. "You see, we have a new guest at our facility. I invite you to come watch our welcoming conversation."

This was a new piece of information. Someone else, they had another person here. Another person that they were going to torture to get information out of him. But he had long ago cut all ties to anyone, he had been on his own for two years. "Sounds fascinating, but my friend and I here are already having such a pleasant chat. I don't suppose it could wait?"

"I don't suppose it could, Mister Holmes. If you wouldn't mind, Kyle, please bring our guest out to the viewing area. And do make sure he stays quiet, yes?" The man left, his footsteps fading away quickly.

Kyle smiled. It wasn't a particularly kind smile. He disappeared from Sherlock's field of vision and returned with a large roll of duct tape. He pulled a piece a hands width long and held it out. "Smile, little man. It's time to get ready for the show." Grabbing Sherlock's hair in one hand to steady his head, he shoved the tape across his mouth. "Oh, it looks like that didn't quite do the job. We'll just have to add another piece, won't we?" He tore another piece off from the roll and covered up the small hole at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "There. We can't have you talking to any other guests, now can we?"

Kyle stepped behind Sherlock's chair again and rummaged around on a tabletop. After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock heard a small clicking sound, tumblers turning in a lock. It was music to his ears. He was being released from the chair and would be on his feet. An advantage was being given to him. Hands roughly grabbed his arms and twisted them behind his back, forcing him to his feet at the same time. His wrists were cuffed together before Kyle bent to unlock the shackles holding his ankles to the chair. "No funny business, now. You try something and you'll miss the show. And you're gonna want to see this one."

Sherlock dutifully held still as Kyle freed him from the chair and stood up. He wrapped a hand around one of Sherlock's biceps and tugged him forcefully around the chair and towards the door in the small room. Sherlock's entire body was protesting the treatment, but his mind was ignoring all of the pain, focusing instead on what could be so interesting that they would let him up to see it. Did they really think he would stay still and remain cowed, not try to escape?

Kyle led him out into a large darkened warehouse. Sherlock could see one spot of relative light, which was where he was being taken. Lying in a heap on the floor was a man. From this distance in the bad light he looked familiar, but Sherlock wasn't able to place him yet.

"Now remember, stay quiet. We don't want you ruining the surprise for our guest, do we?" The leader came up and matched pace with Sherlock. "Though I'm sure you and the good doctor do have plenty to discuss, that's just going to have to wait, isn't it?" He took hold of Sherlock's upper arm and stopped him.

In a patch of light ahead of him, Sherlock could see more of the slumped man, and his blood ran cold. John. That certainly changed things. The hands released his arms but neither man took a step away from his side. It was an unspoken threat, if he tried to run and protect John, there would be consequences.

He glanced around, trying to see how many of his captors were here for this. The conversation happening wasn't important, but as a figure moved towards John his mind froze again. The man had a mask on. A mask with Sherlock's face. And a second man, with the same mask. That was why they had left John in the light, they wanted him to see his dead friend doing this to him. Beating him.

Four men for John, two for himself. That left two men unaccounted for. Guarding the door, most likely. Or monitoring video equipment. Either way, those two would be the least problems. With Kyle and the leader beside him, Sherlock could figure out who was hurting John. He wasn't very pleased with what he saw. He knew exactly how hard each man hit with the cricket bat, and the one working it right now had quite a strong arm. Sherlock winced as two more men stepped forward, pulling John flat for further beating. He was planning exactly what retribution each man would get when he got free.

John's moan brought him back to the present. One of the men leaned forward and whispered into his ear and John's response hit Sherlock like a physical blow. "No...Sherlock. Please stop," he cried, unaware that his friend was meters away watching the whole scene play out.

The leader's hand wrapped once more around Sherlock's bicep as the man with the knife came out to kneel by John. Sherlock tensed, expecting the knife to be plunged deep into his friend. When it was used instead to remove trousers and pants from around his waist, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Knowing he couldn't stop this and watching it were on quite different levels of helplessness. Being forced to listen was bad enough, but he couldn't bring himself to actually watch.

"Open your eyes, or it will only be worse for both of you." It was barely more than a breath in his ear, there was no way anyone else heard it, but Sherlock knew he had to obey. Taking a breath and steeling himself, he opened his eyes. He kept them pointing at the scene in front of him but let his mind wander. He couldn't go to his Mind Palace, not with all the noise, but he could make his focus go elsewhere, do anything not to see the blood and pain being forced on his friend.

Within minutes it was over. All four of John's tormentors backed away and were disappearing into the shadows, laughing as they went. John lay unmoving in the light, blood soaking his thighs. The hand released Sherlock's arm and nudged him forward. "Now, don't you think it's time for a little reunion?"


	3. Reconciliare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconciliare - restore, repair, unite, reconcile
> 
> John gets taken care of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still hasn't seen a beta. I don't own any of it. And I finally got it done!

Reconciliare

Sherlock didn't feel the pain of the tape being ripped from his mouth. He was running toward John, stumbling over his own feet in his haste. He knelt beside his friend doing a quick visual inspection and cataloguing his injuries. "John, wake up. We've got to get you out of here." He looked around for anything that could be used to pick the locks on the cuffs binding them.

There, on the ground, not half a meter away. A hairpin. Sherlock shuffled around John's body and sat on the floor, reaching it with his outstretched fingers. Blindly he worked his way out of his own set of cuffs and then set to work on John's. Once he had the man's hands free he gently pulled him more upright, settling his arms in front of him. He ignored the incoherent moans of pain and sat still, holding John close. "I've got you, John. It's time to wake up now."

John tensed up at Sherlock's voice. He tried to pull away, then realized his arms were free. With a scream of rage, he began thrashing and swinging his arms, trying to get Sherlock away from him, unable to endure any more pain.

Sherlock wrapped himself around John, pinning his arms to his sides. He was as gentle as he could be, trying not to aggravate any injuries that either them had recently sustained. After most of the thrashing had subsided he spun around so he was kneeling in front of John. "Please open your eyes," he said softly. "Look at me, John." His hand came up to gently cup John's cheek.

John heard Sherlock's voice, but refused to open his eyes. Sherlock had just hurt him. Four of them. He was dead. He couldn't be here. This was delirium, and there was no good reason to give into it. He pulled his face away from the hand on his cheek. "No. You're dead. You hurt me. Go away." He tried to curl over onto himself but was stopped and instead pulled forward against another body.

"No, John. I'm alive. And I would never hurt you. Not like this," Sherlock murmured into John's hair. "I swear to you, John, I will do everything in my power to make this right, but you have to look at me." He put a bit of force behind his voice, hoping it would snap John out of whatever mindset he was in.

There was a very long pause before John responded. "This is real," he whispered quietly. "This is real and this is really happening. My dead flatmate turned into four people who beat me and raped me, and now he's telling me he's going to make it better, and it's really happening." There was a note of hysteria in his voice as he continued.

"No, John. They were wearing masks. I would never beat you. I am alive, though, and I am going to make things better, but I really need you to look at me right now." He needed to see John's eyes. He needed to know that everything he had spent most of the past two years doing hadn't been in vain, that there was something that could be salvaged between him and John, even if it was a minimal amount of interaction and strictly on John's terms.

John shook his head slowly. "I'm going mad. Utterly mad." He opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the light. "But you're really there." He reached out a hand slowly, ignoring the pain it caused, and ran his fingers along the faded bruises and cuts on Sherlock's face. "Trust you to come back from the dead just to get me tortured." He dropped his hand and groaned, lying down on his side. Part of him knew he was in shock, he could feel his pulse racing and his mind wasn't quite as focused as it should be, but there was nothing he could do about that.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, I'm really here." He watched John relax on the floor then set about unlocking the shackles at his ankles. "And we'll both be out of here soon." Now that he was freed from his bonds, it was only a matter of time before he got out, and shortly after that everyone in this building would be dead. Once John's ankles were free, Sherlock rubbed them gently to stimulate circulation in his feet. "Stay with me, John. I need you to be able to focus."

"I can't focus." John felt Sherlock rubbing his feet, it was the one place that wasn't causing him immediate pain. "I can't," he moaned quietly, starting to shake. He still couldn't even curl up into a ball properly, not with all the injuries on his back, but he curled as tight as he could.

There were tears in Sherlock's eyes as he sat on the ground, legs crossed. He tugged gently at John's arms, pulling him upright and into his lap. "Please, John. I need you to be alright." He had crossed the globe destroying thread after thread of Moriarty's network, making everything safe for him to come home. This warehouse was the last connection, and he had been sloppy here, had got caught. But now he was with John again, and he knew they would be safe now.

In the background, elsewhere in the warehouse there was screaming. Gunshots were fired. The last bit of light shining on Sherlock and John went out and John curled tighter into Sherlock's arms. "It's okay, John. It's alright. I'm home now."


End file.
